Angel On Your Shoulder
by Lightwing7
Summary: AU set in season 1. When Dean is hurt playing, it's John Winchester to the rescue. But even fathers need occasional help from another source sometimes. One-shot. Wee!chester.


**You know how it works, the muse gets inspired by something, and you're forced to go along with it no matter how many projects you've got going. And because she won't cut the ropes that are binding you to a stone pillar and cutting your flesh, until you do. But it's fun to heed her desires;) I was inspired to write this particular piece after seeing a Supernatural Imagines prompt on Tumblr; which, if you send me a pm, i'll send you the link. Yes, I'll be updating Saving Grace very soon. There are just many thing that need meshing out, so it's taken me longer.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Anything from or related to Supernatural, and this fic is not for profit or gain.** **Enjoy!**

Angel On Your Shoulders

~SPN~

"Dad!"

John Winchester barreled outside to where his son had been climbing trees in their backyard. The terrible sound of his son's distress call had sent his heart-rate skyrocketing and his mind plagued with what-if scenarios.

When he made it to the area, he was relieved to find his son alive and intact clinging to one of the branches with one hand and his first gun in the other.

"It's alright, Dean," he soothed, "I got you. Just let go of the branch and i'll catch you."

"Okay," came the scared reply, before the boy let go.

John caught him in mid air and set him gently on the ground, showing a relieved smile. "Dean, I don't want you climbing so high next time. Understood?"

Dean shook his head yes, and patted off the dirt before suddenly whimpering in pain.

John Winchester frowned in concern and checked his son over for any cuts or scrapes. That's when he found a centimeter long splinter buried deep in his son's palm on his right hand.

Meanwhile, Sam was wearily poking his head out the door of their house across from the trees in the backyard, keeping to the hunter's protocol of examining from afar without engaging first. But not long after, curiosity got the best of him, and he bounded over to see what all the commotion was about.

"Dea, what's wrong?" The little five year old approached his big brother, seeing the distress in his eyes as he held his hand.

"It's just a little splinter, Sam. Dea, will be fine." John replied, giving his eldest son a look that meant it wasn't little and it would take some pain-staking work to get it out. Dean nodded, his composure slightly shaken as he knew what that entailed.

John thoughtfully turned towards his other son. "He needs to get inside the house so we can get it out," he finished.

"Come on Dea." Clear of the mission, Sam grabbed Dean's other hand and led him to the house as fast as his little legs would carry him.

John Winchester softly smiled as he walked behind them. My boys. But the smile didn't last long. Something tickled at his senses, like an unsuspecting fly disturbing the tiny hairs of a Venus Fly Trap. He had felt this feeling before, that something was lurking around them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But it was always just a feeling. He could never find the monster no matter how hard or where he searched.

Shrugging it off as he had done for several months, John entered the house and immediately set to finding some tweezers.

"It's alright. You can cry now, dad's not here."

Dean looked up at his brother sitting beside him, his face pinched with pain, as he leaned back against the headrest of his bed. No, he couldn't cry in front of his little brother, he wouldn't appear weak like that. Sam always depended on him to be strong and brave, and he wasn't going to let his brother down. "No, it's ok, Sammy. It doesn't hurt that bad."

Sam could see that his brother was putting on a brave front for their father. Dean was trying very hard to keep it together, though the younger hunter saw that his eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

A sudden flapping of wings resounded through the air, then ended abruptly, leaving an eerie silence.

Dean motioned for his brother to get behind him, and tightly gripped his gun with his uninjured hand, waving it defensively around the room. "Show yourself," he demanded.

The brothers watched as a male figure stepped out of the shadows, canting his head curiously at them.

Dean was glaring daggers, his finger twitching on the trigger, readying to shoot if he made any sudden advances towards them. "Who are you?"

"I am not at liberty to say at this time, but I mean you no harm."

Dean hadn't heard that exact line of defense before, but he had heard morphed copies of it. Although, the polite tone had him wondering. Even when the demons tried tricking him, their voices were always laced with deep seated malice and contempt; which was never again going to befuddle him. "Alright, i'm gonna give you three seconds to explain why you're here, before I start shooting."

"I am here to help you. You are injured," the man replied.

Dean's vision moved over his tan coat and rested on cerulean blue eyes. There was nothing to suggest he was a monster, or any other bad kind of creature. He looked human and spoke gently, not with an acid tongue. Maybe he could trust him? It was either that or take his dad's "no pain no gain" surgery option, which usually gave him no gain, and a hangover the next day.

The older Winchester lowered his gun in acceptance, feeling something strange within that gave him an awareness of security, in his presence. "What ever you're gonna do, do it quick before my dad finds you."

The figure nodded and approached him. He tentatively hovered his hand over the injury, his concentration completely fixed on his task.

Dean watched in wonderment, his breath hitching in his throat as the hand started to glow. A soft, soothing white light emitted from the man's palm, and he felt his tissue mend together painlessly. The brightness wasn't overpowering like staring into the sun, but, rather, easy on the eyes like a beam of sunlight reflecting off his skin. It caressed him in warmth in a way that he had never experienced in his time as a hunter, and only came close to the feeling of his mother holding him. It felt right.

Soon after the light receded, Dean took a few moments to absorb the experience, trying to find another explanation for what he just witnessed. After letting out a short breath, he examined his palm expecting to find the fuzzy outline of a splinter, but there was no mark, his hand was as good as new. Dean met the soft gaze of the stranger. "I don't know how you did that, but.. thanks."

"You're welcome, Dean." With that, he disappeared.

 _"Wow!"_

The hunter whipped his head around to his younger brother behind him who was staring wide-eyed into space. "I know."

"You were healed by your guardian angel," Sam breathed, "this means that you don't have to carry around dad's gun anymore. Right? I mean, now that you have an angel watching over you."

Dean fell down against a pillow, tucking his arm underneath his head. "I don't know, Sam. I've been hurt way worse than this and I never even saw that man before. Besides, mom always says that angels have wings. I didn't see any wings, did you?"

 _"No, but-"_

There was a knock on the wall, and Dean told his brother to leave the room until he called him back. He didn't want Sam to see the tools their father was carrying. Not until he would have to.

After given the all clear, John entered the room carrying a pen knife and tweezers. Dean knew that he couldn't tell his father the truth about what happened, and gave a silent thank you to the man who healed him upon seeing what would have been in store for him, otherwise.

Sam knelt down on his knees and clasped his hands in prayer. He would still cling to his faith, determined to believe that everything happened for a reason. Even if he didn't know what that reason was.

But all throughout his Dean's childhood, he never saw the mysterious stranger again, and when their mom died he shut out his experience, and the possibility of their being a God, or angels, or mercy. Because if there were, he was convinced that they wouldn't have let his kind-hearted, saint of a mother, die on the ceiling.

Maybe someday, his faith would spark back to life again?


End file.
